The price of peace ~ “To Lead is to anticipate” AUGUST 28th, 1947 Specks of dust suspended in the soft rays of sunrise float aimlessly though the warm air of the Grand gallery, coming to rest upon centuries old masterpieces. Rising over the Seine and refracting off the magnificent overhead windows the summer sun floods the room, filling it with vibrant colours. Winding corridors of freshly waxed floorboards are yet to bear the footprints of the hordes of people waiting eagerly outside. The crisp morning air is alive with excitement and the occasional blinding flash of a camera. The world is waiting anxiously. After months of speculation all that is needed is a glimpse of the most famous painting in the world. To see her hung on rightful soil; exactly where she was 8 years prior. Only then will the entire country breathe a sigh of relief: knowing that their nation that has been so violently stripped of its youth and honour has not lost its pride. A lone figure sits opposite, gazing at the portrait. The eyes smiling back in an alluring but secretive manner as if inviting rebellion. Smartly dressed in a pinstriped suit, a gold pocket watch resting on his crossed knee and an unlit pipe between his lips, any passer-by would be unaware the importance of the clean-shaven Frenchman sitting peacefully in the Louvre. Jacques allowed his mind to wander, as it often did when he found himself alone, to a time in French history that many were trying to forget. AUGUST 28th, 1939 Despite the promising skies of blue and comforting breeze the usual lively ambience of Paris had been dampened that morning by more unsettling news from the East. Threatening like an inevitable thunderstorm, the air in Europe was thick with uncertainty. Jacques stepped out of the taxi, generously tipped the driver and walked briskly along the Seine. The cobblestoned streets outside the Louvre were already alive with students and staff of l’école de Louvre as well as volunteers from surrounding shops, prepared to execute their final day of a meticulously delicate plan. Closed ostensibly for “repairs” the Louvre was anything but derelict. Inside the historic facades, the greatest treasures of renaissance art were being unhinged, boxed, labelled and evacuated in convoys, ambulances and taxis. Jacques had devised the scheme over several months, but he had hoped that time would prove him wrong. Now, as he pushed open the double glass doors he was immediately swarmed by a young, uniformed student. “Monsieur Jaujard, your paper,” He thrust forward a copy of ‘Le Monde’, “Madame Valland is waiting in the Central Forum.” The boy scuttled off. This morning’s headline ran bleaker than last: “C’est Juste Une Question De Temps…”. He had barely climbed the first flight of marble stairs when another student rushed forward. “Director Jaujard, Monsieur Lont wishes to clarify the evacuation priority of the Delacroix?” she announced in a flurry. Jacques’ hazel eyes widened in horror, “Liberty leading the people is still here? Mon dieu!” Swinging the paper under his arm he extracted a large red sticker from his pocket. “Give this to him immediately and don’t be afraid to reprimand him for leaving behind such a piece.” He winked as she hurried away. As Jacques entered the vast forum he sighed at the empty walls; he had hoped it would never come to this. Suddenly he was engulfed in a whirlwind of Chanel and floral fabric as Assistant director of the Museums of France and close friend, Rose Valland, embraced him. “Jacques, how are you? Now before you say anything I don’t want you to get stressed,” She began fervently as she led him over to a collection of muscly men standing around a rickety, wooden track leading down the staircase, “We’re having a bit of trouble moving her…” Jacques stared up at the imposing figure of the Winged Victory of Samothrace perched precariously on a custom-made metal trolley. He furrowed his brows. “Don’t move her. Tell the technicians to secure her to the ground. Keep her off the incline and block off the area until she’s stabilised. We can’t afford a slip.” He ordered. “Did you hear that?” Rose piped at the men to a murmur of agreement. “Follow me, Rose.” Navigating their way through the bustling labyrinth they emerged 10 minutes later at the temporary loading dock, crowded with an array of vehicles and thick with exhaust fumes. A Nationale ambulance with its doors open was parked before them. Stripped of all medical equipment a single stretcher supported a small poplar crate, fastened with elastic. Neatly stencilled on the side: ML. “Are you sure it’s-?” “Positive. I loaded her myself.” He assured. “She’ll be safe now.” Saluting the escort, he slammed the doors shut. Rose and Jacques stood back as they watched the Louvre’s most precious painting disappear into the traffic. Four days later Germany invaded Poland. SEPTEMBER 3rd, 1939 The Chateau de Chambord stood overlooking bountiful acres of precisely manicured gardens and lush countryside. The French flag fluttered proudly from the highest turret. Once a luxurious hunting lodge for the royal family, the spacious three-tiered castle now harboured thousands of evacuated artworks. All 440 rooms filled to capacity with firmly sealed crates, preparing to be triaged across the safe havens of the countryside. Instead of an ambulance, an armoured vehicle was parked below on the gravel courtyard, exclusively reserved and ready at a moment’s notice to whisk away precious cargo. 180 miles away, Jacques Jaujard sat wearily on the marble steps of the Louvre’s grand staircase staring at the desolate walls and barren galleries; a radio crackled beside him. Any glimmer of hope that France could be spared from another bloodbath diminishing as the Ultimatum, the final chance for peace, went ignored by Germany. Suddenly the radio spluttered to life, “A live broadcast from 10 Downing Street as we join the British Prime Minister for his address.” The booming voice of Neville Chamberlain ricocheted around the Louvre, “-unless we had heard from them by 11 o’clock, a state of war would exist between us.” Jacques listened uneasily his hands clasped beneath his chin, “I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received and that this country is now at war with Germany.” Jacques dropped his head into his hands. “May I add that the French Government stand in the same position on this matter as do His Majesty’s.” Jacques flicked the power switch. The silence that followed more profound than ever. He stood up slowly, brushed his pants and picked up the radio. When he reached the double doors below, he looked back at the eerily bare museum. The time had come. He stepped out under the overcast sky and disappeared into the sombre crowds of bowed heads and upturned collars. AUGUST 16, 1940 Almost a month had passed since German soldiers had marched freely into Paris, past the Arc d’Triomphe, staining the Champs Elysees with the blood of France’s youth. All the shops now closed and shuttered. German occupation had brought the frontline of the war to Paris’ doorstep. Jacques had been sweeping the floors of the Grand Gallery when a stampede of boots tremored the floor of the Louvre. He hurried downstairs to find soldiers scouring the corridors, depositing mud and filth on the freshly polished tiles. A squat man plainly dressed, with round glasses resting on his prominent nose stood awkwardly before him. Jacques strode over extending an arm to the man, “Director Jacques Jaujard.” The man looked around nervously before shaking his hand, “Monsieur, Count Franz Von Wolff-Metternich. But you can call me Franz.” He announced in a thick German accent. Jacques extracted a pack of Royale cigarettes and offered one to Franz with a satirical smirk. “In here?” he replied confused. “Sure, why not there’s nothing here to damage?” “Jah, jah” he muttered, his voice echoing around the halls, “I’d noticed. The Führer will not be pleased when he learns of this.” He gestured to the artless walls and grimaced at Jacques. Jacques lit his cigarette and placed a hand on Franz’s shoulder leading him away from any eavesdropping soldiers. “I know why you’re here.” Jacques whispered assertively. “I have been anticipating this moment for months…years and it is imperative that you understand that we will not simply step aside and let you rob us of our pride. Try as you please, you will never find them.” He glared unblinkingly at the Count who shifted uneasily, glancing behind him before he began. “Monsieur Jaujard, no one could have been more pleased than I to arrive here and find them gone.” Jacques’ forehead wrinkled slightly. “I’m no more a party member than you are. I’m an art curator, was-was an art curator, I was summoned by Hitler to bring them to him.” He falters for a second. “I could never have brought myself to steal these pieces, a monstrosity, an utter disgrace, who knows what he might do to them…” he mumbled. Jacques heart began to relax but the cogs inside his head continued to spin rapidly as he listened. “But where is everything? I see not one piece. How did you move everything? Thousands of paintings, sculptures… If they hadn’t been hidden they would be in Germany by sunset tomorrow.” He stuttered uncontrollably. “Everything is safe.” Jacques assured the fretting German who pulled out a hander- kerchief and mopped his brow.